Losing Touch
by Lauren Order
Summary: Sherlock's POV.  Angst!fic.  John Watson went missing from Sherlock's life after one fateful incident, and now Sherlock must rely on the written word to express his true feelings. Warnings: suicide attempts, implied character death


**Losing Touch**

I took a deep breath as I looked around the flat. Things just weren't going to be the same. Now, I'm not one to get sentimental, but there was _something_ about Dr John H. Watson that made my surroundings different than they are now.

I'm sure he tried to take my feelings into account, but I hardly let on how disappointed I was that he was gone. He's better off not knowing.

Now my days consist of what they used to consist of: research, consulting, boredom. Mostly boredom. Occasionally I get an urge to go and visit him, but I know I can't do that.

Once or twice I felt absolutely deplorable about my life. I'm not used to having such drastic changes in emotion, so I called him. He is a doctor, after all, so he could at the very least give me medical advice. Needless to say, it was a mistake.

Mycroft is particularly concerned about me. But there's nothing he can do. There's nothing anyone can do. John Watson has gone away, never to return. And I couldn't do a thing to stop him.

That's all I want to say about my life. It's taken up far more space on the page than it should have. What you really need to know is how it happened. How I lost touch with my colleague, my best mate, and most importantly, my other half.

* * *

><p>I do hate to romanticise a story if I can avoid it. But everything about this story is romantic, from the beginning to the end. So, I think it's only appropriate to give an account that reflects John and his flights of fancy…<p>

If you're anyone who's anyone in London, I'm sure you've heard of our impeccable team. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. We were together for such a long time. We had a nice life, at least I thought so. Catching criminals and still managing to have time for crap telly… I ended up enjoying the balance between the mundane and the exciting.

I'll admit I was sometimes less than pleasant to get along with. However, I warned John of that before we even became flatmates. It's hard enough writing this, so you can only imagine I wasn't the most talkative man around. I ignored him on occasions, and ignored almost everything on the list of chores. If I could do it again, I'd be twice- no, three times- as helpful.

We shared not only our flat, but our weaknesses and our desires and everything else you could possibly think of. Almost.

There came a few times when I questioned whether John was interested in me. One time we bumped into each other on the stairs and just stood there for the longest time staring at each other. I could tell that he was starting to sweat and his pupils dilated, so I assumed he was nervous about something. I reached out to steady him, to reassure him, because physical contact (from me, only me) makes him feel more at ease. But this time, it only made him more uneasy. I didn't want to assume anything; rather, I wanted to let him tell me for once. It wouldn't do well to deduce something like that.

I should never have questioned my instinct. The moment of truth came one night when I was hard at work analysing a tissue sample. John never interrupted me while I was doing experiments, probably because he was a bit scared of what he might see. But that night, he actually entered the room. He didn't say anything. He just put his hand on my shoulder, a similar gesture to what might be expected from a boyfriend, or even a spouse. It meant the world to me, but I could not find the words to describe how he made me feel. So I stood up and put my hand on his shoulder in return. "There's no one in the world I would rather share a flat with," he told me. He knew I could read the hidden meaning in that phrase. Normally I was rubbish at determining others' innermost emotions (I will admit this was and always will be my downfall), specifically towards me. But with him… I could read him like a book.

The next night, we confessed everything under the cover of his duvet.

With a physical aspect introduced into our lives, it seemed that everything was right with the world. There was a certain pleasure in finding out the answer to an unsolved mystery. But absolutely nothing could compare to the pleasure John was able to provide. It was as if everything had just fallen into place; it had always existed and we were only now deciding to act on our innate desires.

No one ever questioned us, but it was obvious people knew we were more than just associates. Neither of us minded any assumptions people made. They were probably true, anyway.

This part of my life was the best. I wish I could keep reliving every moment I had with him, down to the quaint breakfasts and checking the morning news and seeing a new crime that needed solving and Lestrade showing up unexpectedly and our giggling at _every _crime scene. I am convinced beyond a doubt that it was love. John Watson, you unleashed a force to be reckoned with.

* * *

><p>I miss you terribly.<p>

But it does not help anyone to dwell in the past.

I think what hurts the most is knowing you're still here, that I could visit you at any time and see your face and all the memories will come flooding back at once. I have to restrain myself from doing this, because I know it will only make things worse.

Instead, I have to sit here and erase everything from this impossible hard drive called my mind.

I take one memory of you and start to read about various topics to block it out. Now I know there are more planets that go around the sun, not just Earth. And now I forget exactly how much you enjoyed having jam on toast.

The minutiae are easy to forget. However, I could read every anthology in existence and _still _not be able to forget the moment when our lives changed.

I suppose it comes with the business. You make far too many enemies for your own good. It was bound to happen eventually. And of course they would target the person closest to me. I should have read those comic books that you gave me. Reading over them now, I realise that we were the closest thing to a real-life superhero team. The villain always strikes at the sidekick or the love interest first. You were both.

Remember the days when we would sit together on the bed, huddled under the blankets (for the shock, you'd say) and pore over Shakespeare? What was the one thing I always stressed? Don't end up like these characters. They act immediately, without reason, and base everything on emotion. It was a good enough idea, in theory. But there's a reason Romeo and Juliet is a timeless tragedy. Things happen to good people with good intentions.

Even still, how my heart aches! This is far too emotional. I sound like a poet, but there's no other way to express myself now than through the written word. The rumours of my death were just that- _rumours._

He didn't put a gun in your hand.

He left a note.

No, he left a suggestion.

I don't know which is worse.

I wish you'd taken the gun. At least then you wouldn't constantly be in the back of my mind. The image of your terrified face, fading into the blackness. I'd arrived a second too late.

I would be like a normal widower, going through the proper grieving process and moving on with life.

Why are you still here? The question haunts me at every waking moment.

I had come back; it was supposed to be a joyous occasion. Believe me when I say that the anticipation of seeing your smiling face was what kept me on the path, heading back to the place I call home.

Any minute I would see you and everything would be happy again. Like old times. "You're alive!" you'd call as I'd walk through the door and then I would sweep you off your feet and we could hide beneath the covers yet again.

I returned to the flat to find a note. Not _the_ note, but _your _note. The one that made me _feel_ things. An explosion of emotion that I'd never had over all these years, cascading from my mind, my heart, my soul. I realised that my view of you was like that of the Renaissance artists. I saw you as embodied perfection; I would never change a thing about you.

I failed to recognise that we all have weaknesses. I also failed to recognise what your weakness was.

When reality finally hit me right across the face, I ran. I didn't look back; I knew where you would be.

I remembered that one day when we walked everywhere. We even walked across the bridge. You gazed at the horizon and wondered what it would be like to disappear into the sunrise.

Only it wasn't sunrise now. It was midnight. The darkness overcame the entire scene, seemingly engulfing you. The horizon consisting of only lights belonging to places where people lived, worked, and played, all happier than you.

I don't know how long you were standing there. I don't know what you were thinking about. I don't know anything, and it frustrates me. There is just no analysing emotional distress using my usual methods.

But I could analyse the angle at which you jumped off. The regret you felt immediately. The will to survive above all other thoughts as you were falling. You thought it would be liberating, but a new instinct kicked in that made you a prisoner to your panic. You saw my face as you fell and I knew at that moment there was nothing you wanted more than to be able to take off like a bird and fly, or even float, back up to me and land in my arms. There was nothing I wanted to do more than to catch you somehow. To tell you that everything was all right; this was just a bad dream and I would always be here for you.

You kept falling.

Then the sound that I will never forget. The sound of your fragile body hitting the water. The sound indicating that you were broken, but not gone. I knew it from the second it happened that you were alive, and that the pain must be unbearable.

I looked away for the first time in my life.

* * *

><p>It was difficult seeing you in hospital afterwards. The doctors told me that you specifically requested for me to get there first, to know the diagnosis before anyone else.<p>

You were paralysed, they said. I assumed you were paraplegic; you would have to spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair. It was all right. We could manage to make it somewhat normal for you again.

It was worse than that. You were now quadriplegic. It wasn't the worst case they'd seen, as you still had limited feeling in your limbs, but you wouldn't be able to live a normal life again.

The most important thing for me was to know that you could speak. I remember starting to walk into the room and you calling out just like I expected: "You're alive!"

I didn't need to sweep you off your feet. "You're alive!" I called back to you from the doorway. "We're both alive!"

Then I hid under the covers with you for what I knew would be the last time. It wasn't proper of me to do that in a hospital bed, but it was necessary. All we did was stare at each other, knowing what could have been.

"I can find a way to make this work," I said underneath our hospital blanket. "Come back with me and I'll give you anything you need. I'll take care of you."

"Sherlock, you can't even get the milk when I ask you to. What makes you think you can take care of all of my needs?" you asked, being ever-practical.

"You. It's all my fault. I tried to tell you I was all right, and then-" my voice caught in my throat. You sensed that emotion had overtaken me and came to my aid.

"It wasn't your fault. They're evaluating me. It was my decision, and it probably happened due to my original problems from Afghanistan. This is what I deserve."

"NO. Never, ever, say you deserve it. Because you don't. John, I- I love you. Did I ever… tell you that?" I stumbled on the words as they spilled out of my mouth.

"You never told me in words. But I know you. In actions, that's where the sentiment lies. So maybe you never got the milk. We just drank wine instead. I've always loved you, too, Sherlock. It's just a difficult thing to say until you come close to the end."

"That's the most amazing thing I've ever heard you say," I marvelled. Leave it to you to come up with a great philosophical statement right after staring down death. That was usually more of my specialty.

"Well, it's true. And listen, whatever happens, don't lose touch, ok? "

A quick kiss, and then I had to leave you, lying there in your bed, depending on others from now on to help with the simplest of tasks. They wouldn't let me near you again, having officially recognised me as a trigger to your mental instability. They were all afraid that you would make a more successful attempt on your life; how they even expected you to do that, I don't know.

When I called you those few times, your voice sounded distant. You knew what was happening to me. The inevitable breakdown. It's still happening, right now. The thoughts flowing to the page. I don't know how else to record what's happening to me without triggering you.

* * *

><p>I've freed up so much room in my mind now for other things. For example, I've started taking official violin lessons and I've memorised a few songs. But for whom am I playing? Nobody listens to me speak, let alone play music.<p>

Sometimes I write things like this. The page is always ready and willing to hear my story. However, there's still nothing in the world like another fellow human standing next to me, supporting the wildest of my hopes and dreams.

I should have always been ready for this day. But I never was.

John Watson was more than a friend and more than a lover. He was something else. Something special.

Is there anything I can do to make it up to him? Maybe.

For one thing, I can stop calling him. Gradually break off the ties.

But he said not to lose touch…

He can't be triggered anymore, though.

Losing touch is losing a source of pain for him. I no longer serve a purpose for him.

Yes, this is the correct way to grieve. I'm certain of it now. I've never been good with feelings, but it just feels right to leave him alone. He's better off now. I'm better off now.

John, I will never cause you harm again.

You deserve to live a better life, a pain-free life.

* * *

><p>After looking around for a while, I left the flat. It wasn't the same without you, and I felt guilty for even being there. Now I'm walking along the streets and all of a sudden- I see it. The bridge. I gravitate towards it. I just- wonder- what- it- feels- like<p>

To stand

And stare

And feel the hopelessness breathing down your neck

The thoughts rushing through your mind

_Thoughts of you._

I don't remember how I got here, but now I am standing on the edge of the bridge despite the warning signs.

"Turn back,"they seem to tell me. I don't listen. I don't listen to anyone except you.

I look into the depths of the river. Unlike you, I am actually calculating my (thankfully, low) chances of survival. I'm not basing this on emotion. It's logical that I should do this. No one else should be burdened with my problems.

I close my eyes and see your face: falling, remorseful as soon as you felt the drop in your stomach and the fragility of your life. Then I see your face as you were in the hospital bed, looking up at me and wishing things were different. Wishing you could move your hand to my face one last time.

That falling feeling…

That is how I feel every day without you. I love you. _It's difficult to say until you come close to the end._

I lean over the edge and breathe in the scent of the inviting water. The sun playfully sparkles off the rippling current. At least I will not leave in the darkness.

John, you won't have to worry.

It's the truth now.

No more rumours.

Just-

Losing-

Touch-


End file.
